


Arthur, Unconscious

by Grainne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Arthur Finds Out, Banter, First Time, M/M, Magic Revealed, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Grainne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some quests are about much more than finding medicinal plants, mythical treasure, or large quantities of meat. Arthur is slow on the uptake, but he will get there, eventually. <i>Canon-era AU firmly grounded in, and set after, the halcyon days of Series 1.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unbearably Hot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seekintoyou (at LJ)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Seekintoyou+%28at+LJ%29).



> Originally written for Seekintoyou at LJ's spring 2011 Glomp Fest hosted by Hermette. Her prompts were: neck fetish, magic reveal and Arthur being torn between Merlin and his father. What came out was this beast of a love letter to Series 1-style epic romance and action/adventure stories.
> 
> Sincere gratitude and a wish-granting monkey paw go to the most excellent Mizufae, who went FAR above and beyond the call of beta duty. Not only did she ensure my jumble of raw ingredients got turned into a proper fic sandwich; she also created the splendid heraldic shields that adorn it. Notes on the shields are included at the end of the story. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.

  


Arthur was unbearably hot.

There had been no significant rainfall in Camelot for over a fortnight, and the August sun blazed down from a merciless blue sky. Farmers' hands were as dry and cracked as the fields they tended, and all manner of folk from the lower town were suffering from sun-induced ailments. Even Arthur's knights – those paragons of rude health and manly virtue – had succumbed to the general feeling of listlessness that had beset the kingdom, and Arthur understood. It was too hot to even wear mail, let alone train in it; better a dunk in the river or a spot of archery practice in the shade.

But Arthur was Uther's son, and as Uther was apparently made of colder, sterner stuff, so must his son be, which was why Arthur found himself riding out in full armor on what his father and Gaius had deemed a very important mission.

And just what was this very important mission? An urgent act of diplomacy to prevent a wider war? The slaying of a predatory beast come to feast on the weary, over-baked citizens of Camelot? The arrest of some foul sorcerer or fair sorceress who was withholding rain?

No, no, and again, no. Arthur had been roused early from sweat-damp sheets and a pleasant jumble of dreams by one of his father's servants. After a paltry breakfast, he'd been sheathed in layer upon maddening layer of fabric and metal and summoned to the council chamber. His father, with Gaius and an annoyingly perky Merlin in attendance, had then ordered Arthur to ride out on this blistering day for the noble cause of assisting Merlin in the collection of some weeds. Assisting _Merlin._ With _weeds._

Granted, Gaius claimed that these particular weeds were required for effective treatment of the overheated populace. Granted, too, that when Gaius had said, "assist Merlin," Arthur had assumed that what he really meant was, "keep Merlin from harm, or at least keep him from doing something monumentally stupid." As he had done in Ealdor _and_ at the end of that wretched maze, as well as any number of times within Camelot and its surrounding forests and, really, one would think that he were the one working for Merlin, not the other way round.

But still. Arthur could think of a thousand and one more important, more sensibly-dressed (or rather, undressed) things he could be doing on a hot day than acting bodyguard to his idiot manservant's weed-collecting expedition. Especially as he was forced to rely on said idiot manservant's sense of direction.

"It should be, ah, just a bit farther," Merlin called back over his shoulder. "After we pass that big table rock, I mean." He flashed Arthur a nervous smile.

Arthur wanted to ask Merlin whether by "a bit" he meant one mile or five, and hadn’t they already passed that big table rock once before, but he merely sighed and nodded his acknowledgment. It was too hot to argue, even with Merlin. And that was saying something, as arguing with Merlin was one of Arthur's few private pleasures.

Their good-humored sparring reminded him of how he and Morgana had been as children, except with Merlin there was not that ultimate boundary of the sexes – no nurse clucking her tongue and reminding him that he must never lay disrespectful hands on a _lady,_ even one as high-spirited as Morgana.

With Merlin, there was no need for Arthur to rein in his impulses to jostle or prod, to grab at whatever appendage was nearest and give it a twist or a rub with his knuckles. He could shove his feet in Merlin's face, pinch his ears, muss his hair and throw things at his backside and Merlin, well, Merlin seemed to accept that this was Arthur's way of showing trust and affection. Although lately…

Arthur mopped his brow, frowning. Lately his nighttime urges had begun to infect his waking thoughts, and there were times when his roughhousing with Merlin brought him perilously close to full arousal. Merlin never seemed to notice; if he did, he seemed to find nothing odd in it, which made it easier for Arthur to ignore his self-doubts on the matter. His father, however…

Arthur was uncomfortable with the way his father watched them at times. As Arthur's crowning ceremony had approached, his father had taken to ambushing him in the corridors or after training for awkward chats, and in one of these he'd expressly warned Arthur off being over-familiar with his manservant.

Arthur had been bewildered at the time, as just that afternoon he'd thoroughly bested the team of Merlin and Sir Leon at the quarterstaff with one arm tied behind his back, and he'd thought he'd read approval (or at least amusement) on his father's face.

Now, Arthur wondered if his father had sensed something untoward in the encounter. Had Arthur sat on Merlin a little too long after sweeping his feet out from under him? Was there something unseemly in the way he'd helped him up afterward? Was it not proper to have given him a friendly swat on the backside and showed him how to adjust his stance, so he wouldn't be so easily upended in future?

But then again, Uther had also expressed his disapproval of Arthur joining in on the knights' unofficial grappling contests, bathing parties, and bonfire revels. So perhaps it was just his father's general distaste for crowned royalty engaging in informality of any kind, and nothing to do with Merlin.

Uther had told Arthur more than once in recent months that he needed to start acting more like the knights' leader and less like their friend, going on at length about birthright and dignity. Only the other week he'd warned him against hanging around the guardhouse, "like an overeager pup," unless it was for inspection purposes. "You want the men's respect, Arthur, not their love."

And Arthur had of course nodded, had said, "Yes, Father," while privately wondering why he couldn’t have both, and if he could even stand being king if it meant always keeping himself apart – aloof and untouched.

Aloofness had its uses, but it was lonely and ultimately quite boring. And Arthur _liked_ being touched. He envied the knights in their quarters and the hounds in their kennels, sleeping all jostled up against one another. He'd secretly relished sleeping on the floor of Hunith's cottage in Ealdor, Merlin a solid, reassuring presence all down his side.

Arthur sighed and patted his mount’s neck. Was that it? Was he so desperate for any type of contact or affection that he'd focused all his feelings, both noble and base, on the nearest warm body – namely, his manservant? More importantly, given that his manservant wasn't just any manservant, but _Merlin,_ was it really all that unnatural? Merlin caused virulent outbreaks of fond smiling and reciprocal do-gooding nearly everywhere he went, and, although he got so many of the day-to-day things wrong, he always got the important things just right.

Arthur studied what he could see of Merlin. From this angle he was a thatch of dark hair, a roll of crimson fabric, and a clinging, faded blue tunic – all framed by an ungainly arrangement of limbs, stirrups and reins. Arthur smiled. Merlin still had a terrible seat. He was awkwardly put together – hardly knight material – but there was something appealing about him nonetheless, and he was the closest thing Arthur had these days to a real friend. And wouldn’t it be so much more pleasant (not to mention convenient) to engage in bed sport with an agreeable friend than with the most well-formed of strangers?

After all, as Arthur knew from personal experience, well-formed strangers didn’t always have the best intentions.

Still, Arthur suspected that he was in the minority. He'd witnessed many men risk their lives and reputations for the merest glimpse of a fair face or shapely hand, and while plenty of nobles bedded their servants, it was not done out of friendship. Such encounters were hardly equitable. Which meant that Arthur should probably take his father's advice and distance himself, or at least stop taking advantage of Merlin's friendly nature, his wide-openness to Arthur's teasing and touches. That would be the crown princely thing to do.

Except Arthur couldn’t stand the thought of being formal with Merlin, especially when it was just the two of them out and about, like today. It gave him a visceral chill, even as the sun did its level best to roast him whole.

Arthur sighed again and nudged his horse up towards Merlin's.

After they passed the table rock (this time on the left, Arthur noted with satisfaction), the track wound down round the side of the hill, heading for a thick screen of grasses and shrubs. Just beyond, Arthur could make out a canopy of tall trees.

"Are we heading for water?"

Merlin looked back, shading his eyes with one hand. "Lake," he said, nodding.

"Thank God," Arthur murmured. He had visions of diving in naked, of cool mud between his toes.

As if summoned by Arthur's thoughts, a scrap of breeze suddenly appeared from the direction of the lake, teasing his burning brow with the promise of relief. And with it came a sound: a faint screeching, bellowing sound.

Arthur sat up straighter in his saddle. Was it a hawk? A stag? But then, just as suddenly, the breeze and the sound were gone. The rump of Merlin's horse disappeared into the stand of tall grass and Arthur grimaced as he felt new beads of sweat blooming on his forehead. Probably just his heat-addled imagination. He took a deep breath and urged his horse after Merlin's. He couldn’t wait to reach that lake.

The air in the grass was, if possible, even hotter than it had been out in the open fields. It was damp, cloying, and full of pollen and bits of chaff that tickled Arthur's nostrils and irritated what little of his skin was exposed, so that where before he had merely sweated, now he sweated and sneezed and _itched._ Forthcoming swim or no, it was all becoming too much to bear.

True, the last time he'd gone on a quest for some mysterious plant he'd had to deal with a cockatrice, a devious enchantress and a horde of overlarge spiders, but then Merlin's very _life_ had been at stake. At present, Arthur could not see why the gathering of a few weeds would necessitate an armed guard, let alone the crown prince. Even the most depraved bandits were more likely to be napping in the shade than out marauding in this heat. Besides, at this point he would almost rather face those spiders again in the Caves of Balor. There in the nice, cool caves with the lovely bluish-white ball of light that he knew would not let him come to any harm.

"Arthur!"

Merlin's panicked cry came mere seconds before the screech-bellow sounded again, louder this time. Arthur's brain registered, as any good huntsman's would, that this meant that whatever was making the sound was closer, _much_ closer. Shaking his head clear, he spurred his horse onward and reached for his sword.

He burst forth from the tall grass to find himself beside the lake. He just had time to take in a few details (that its banks were dotted with wildflowers, for example, and that here and there clusters of large flat stones broke the water's surface, practically begging a man to strip off, swim out to them and spend an idle afternoon splashing about and sunbathing) before Merlin's flailing arms directed his attention to the thing that was emerging from the lake.

It was the color of an old bruise. And scaly. It had a tangled, weedy black mane that spread out across the water and a long muzzle ending in nostrils ablaze with an eerie blue flame. It churned its way towards them with powerful forelegs, screech-bellowing and rolling its wild, bulging eyes. And then, with a lunge, it was no longer in the lake, but out of it, and it was _immense._

Arthur drew his sword and looked at Merlin in disbelief. He opened his mouth to ask Merlin what in the blazes the creature was, and couldn’t Merlin have warned him, and for God's sake to keep back and find some cover as, whatever it was, it didn’t seem best pleased at their presence. But before he could speak Merlin shouted, "Don’t kill her, just keep her busy, yeah? I'll be as quick as I can," jumped off his startled mount and plunged into the lake. Which Arthur thought most unhelpful.

"Don’t ki – keep her what?" he roared, seriously contemplating riding straight into the lake after Merlin and spearing him like the slippery eel that he was. But then the creature reared up on her hindquarters and roared back. Her breath stank of night soil and rotten fish. Her spittle was viscous and black, and Arthur noted that, where it fell, the wildflowers and tender greens began to wither and smoke. Merlin's horse gave a distressed whinny and took off at a trot round the edge of the lake.

"Oh," came Merlin's voice from somewhere out in the water, "and don’t let her lick you!"

"I'd just about worked that one out for myself, thanks," Arthur shouted, furiously jamming his helmet onto his head and reaching down for his shield. He had a devil of a time unfastening it, what with his own horse snorting and vibrating with a distinctively uncharacteristic case of the jitters. If Arthur let it, he felt sure it would bolt after Merlin's mount, which had gained the far side of the lake and was doing its equine best to conceal itself amidst some shrubbery. But then Arthur couldn’t really blame the poor beasts; if horses had nightmares, then this creature could well have been in them. She was like an abomination of a horse, really, slavering and stinking and slimy.

And squinting at him?

As soon as Arthur freed his shield from his saddle, the creature stilled, tilting her massive head to one side. The flames in her nostrils died down to a mere flicker and thick green lids slid partway across her eyes. This made her appear more reptilian than equine (and rather sleepy, but Arthur was not fooled; he thought it far more likely that the creature was sizing him up, deciding which bits of him and his horse to have for a light luncheon and which bits to save for her dinner). When Arthur's horse took a sudden jog sideways, the creature's head followed their movement. She made a sort of wet whickering sound deep in her throat and took a step forward.

Arthur clamped his knees firmly to his horse and whispered a word of encouragement in its ear. He then raised sword and shield into defensive position, silently cursing Merlin for pitching up in Camelot, of all towns, with all manner of strange, wonderful and terrifying adventures at his back. Even Arthur, who was not naturally given to finding conspiracy round every corner the way his father did, had not failed to notice that life in Camelot had become rather more _exciting_ since Merlin's arrival.

"Huwaagh!" Arthur cried, pressing forward. He felt a bit silly, but the situation demanded a battle cry, and without his fellow knights to rally or an earthly opponent to warn, neither, "For Camelot!" nor, "Ready!" would do. "Raah!" he added for good measure, and whirled his sword round once to show he meant business.

The creature waggled her head, never taking her eyes off Arthur, and made the whickering sound again. Then she huffed a great fiery breath out through her nostrils, turned around thrice where she stood, and sank down on her forelegs, blinking up at Arthur and making little grunting noises. Arthur found this more unnerving than the screech-bellowing and corrosive saliva.

"Merlin!" he called, scanning the lake for sight of him. "Merlin, what is she doing?"

A dark, wet head popped up near one of the large rocks. "You're doing great, Arthur," he cried, adding an exaggerated thumbs-up gesture. "Almost finished here."

"But what's she _doing,_ Merlin? What does she want? How do I – ?"

"Just keep moving about. And try to stay in the sunlight!"

And with that Merlin disappeared beneath the surface of the lake, leaving Arthur no more enlightened, and even more frustrated, than before. With a snort of disgust he straightened in his saddle and looked down at the ghoulish beast, who was still staring at him with half-lidded eyes. He cautiously urged his horse a few paces to the right, then to the left. She followed his every move with her gaze. He wheeled in a circle and brandished his sword high above his head. The creature grunted happily and sank all the way down on her haunches, head bobbling as she followed the movement of Arthur's sword.

"Right then," Arthur said under his breath. "It's a show you’re wanting? Then a show you'll bloody well get."

And Arthur embarked on a series of parade maneuvers, with full side passes and half-passes and the slow trot used when one wanted to see and be seen by people who mattered. All the while he kept up a series of postures with sword and shield, bending this way and that to swipe at imaginary opponents, or striking dramatic poses with his sword in the air. He could not see the creature's reaction, what with the limited peripheral vision afforded by his helmet (not to mention the sweat streaming down his face), but by her continued grunts and snorts and whickers he gathered she was enjoying the performance.

As was Merlin, who was suddenly (to Arthur, who would have sworn that his manservant couldn’t possibly have exited the lake _and_ retrieved his horse without him noticing) lounging against a nearby tree, dripping wet and mock-clapping.

Arthur drew up short, panting. Merlin's hair was plastered to his head, his clothes were plastered to his body, and the dopey grin plastered on his face stretched from one jutting flap of ear to the other, yet somehow Arthur felt more ridiculous in comparison.

"Don’t stop," Merlin said, seemingly trying to suppress a laugh. "I think she likes you. Well, not _you,_ exactly, as it's the sight of shiny stuff that keeps her docile, but really, when you think about it, it _is_ you inside the shiny stuff so – "

Arthur didn’t hear what came next, as he screamed bloody murder and charged at Merlin, who sprang onto his horse in a surprisingly agile fashion. Impudent scoundrel and beast legged it off back through the grass the way they'd come and Arthur, seeing the affronted expression on the face of the creature at the interruption to her afternoon's entertainment, followed.

There was a great screeching and bellowing and positively plaintive-sounding lowing for a time, and Arthur sincerely hoped that the creature hadn’t been hiding a pair of wings beneath that giant tangle of mane. The cries soon faded, however, and Arthur – who'd probably not drunk enough water to compensate for performing vigorous maneuvers in full armor under a blazing sun – promptly fainted in his saddle.

His last conscious, smug thought was that, as he had a far better seat than Merlin, at least he would not topple off sideways and wind up gawping skyward in a patch of nettles.

 

  


 

Arthur awoke to the twin sensations of _finally_ being cool, which was divine, and of being smothered in a wet red fog, which was less so. He coughed. The red fog suddenly lifted, and a pale, dear, infuriating face loomed into his field of vision.

"Owha whath thath theen?" Arthur said, frowning as he realized that his mouth was painfully dry, his tongue clumsy and thick.

"What? Oh, hang on!"

Arthur felt a hand support the back of his head. A water skin appeared in front of his face, and he drank down several large swallows before waving it away.

"What… what was that thing?" Arthur said, squinting up at Merlin. There was something different about him, Arthur thought, but he couldn’t place it. His head still felt muzzy.

Merlin's dark brows drew together as he dribbled water from the skin onto a wadded up piece of red fabric. He looked from the fabric to Arthur's face.

"It's my neckerchief. Um, scrap of cloth I usually wear round my neck? I was trying to cool you off." He corked the skin and set it aside. "You looked so flushed and – oh, Arthur, did you hit your head? Here, how many fingers am I holding up?"

Arthur blinked as three long digits were thrust in front of his nose. A laugh rumbled up from his belly, but came out as a sort of raspy cough. Thankfully though, his arms were in full working order, and he swatted Merlin's hand away from his face.

"Not the cloth, you bumpkin," he said, struggling to raise himself onto his elbows. He noted that his armor had been removed and was now lying in a jumble around him. "That ghastly thing at the lake – what was that? It looked like the bastard offspring of a dragon and a particularly unfortunate horse."

"Oh! Not concussed then; that's a relief." Merlin's face cleared and he smiled down at Arthur in that open, delighted way that made Arthur feel as if he were in on the best secret in the world. "It's a water demon – a kelpie, according to Gaius, although she has lots of different names. You were brilliant, Arthur. Literally and metaphorically."

Merlin chuckled and began busily dabbing at Arthur's forehead with the wet cloth. Normally Arthur would have rolled his eyes, would have pushed Merlin's hand away and told him that he was not a _maiden,_ thank you very much, and enough with the coddling. But the cloth was cool and soothing, as were Merlin's fingers when they occasionally brushed at his temple or smoothed the hair back off his brow.

"She ignored me completely once you turned up," Merlin prattled on. "I was able to get enough clumpwort to keep all of Camelot from sunstroke for weeks, not to mention all the burn salve and cooling tonics Gaius can make from the roots. He'll be so pleased. He wasn't sure the old girl would still fall for it after all these years, but then as far as he knew no one had disturbed her since that time Sir Pellinore and those poor hounds blundered by, and he reckoned she might be a bit bored – "

"Wait, what?" The meaning behind Merlin's words had finally penetrated through the fog in Arthur's brain. He pushed himself up to sitting and caught Merlin's wrist in a firm grip. "You mean to tell me Gaius _knows_ the wretched beast? That you knew she would be here? He didn’t mention that in the council chamber, Merlin!"

"Um." Merlin's smile faded, but didn’t disappear altogether, and he gave a little shrug. He looked warily down to where Arthur was still clutching his wrist. Arthur immediately let go, then changed his mind and grasped Merlin by both shoulders and gave him a shake.

"'The location is somewhat remote,' Gaius said. 'And the journey not without risk, which is why I daren't send him alone. But don’t worry, sire, the most difficult part will fall to Merlin.' Am I remembering that correctly?" Merlin nodded, eyes wide. "Bandits, I thought. Angry boars. Or perhaps you'd need some assistance in not tripping over your own two feet. But what's this? I think I may have concussed myself after all, Merlin, because I don’t recall anyone mentioning the fact that what you really needed was for me to risk life and limb, not to mention expensive horseflesh, serving as a distraction to a dirty great – and let's not forget _venomous_ – water demon whilst _you_ went for a swim!"

Merlin winced. Any impression he might have given of actually being ashamed of his actions was quickly ruined, however, as he blinked several times, looked directly at Arthur with the widest, bluest eyes Arthur had ever seen and said, "I was not enjoying myself out there, sire, honestly. Holding my breath, trying to see underwater – don’t look at me like that; it really stings! – and the clumpwort is prickly and slimy and I nearly severed a finger cutting it off those boulders. The reason we didn't say anything was because, well, Gaius wasn't even sure the kelpie would still be here. We didn’t want to worry you – or the king – unduly."

Merlin was pouting and knotting the wet neckerchief between his hands at this point, and he looked so perfectly aggrieved that Arthur nearly released him. But then he registered the fact that Merlin wasn't trying to get away at all; that, in fact, he was leaning into Arthur's grasp, and that the corner of his mouth was twitching with a suppressed smile. He didn't have time to fully consider what all of these things added up to before he found himself bowling Merlin over onto his back and pouncing on him.

"I'll worry _you_ unduly, Merlin," he said, snatching the neckerchief out of Merlin's hands and smothering his face with it.

And then it was all spluttering and laughter, the smack of the wet cloth as Arthur flicked it at Merlin's head and chest, and Merlin's protests as he tried to wrest the cloth from Arthur's hand.

At some point during the tussle Arthur realized that what had seemed different about Merlin when he'd first come to, what he had noticed without being able to put a name to it, was the very fact that Merlin was no longer wearing his neckerchief. The pale corded column of his neck was fully exposed, from the prominent lump of his Adam's apple down to the hollow nestled between his collarbones. Arthur decided that he liked Merlin better without his neckerchief. He looked less like a peasant boy, more like a man. (Though why that should please Arthur so was not something he should probably dwell on.)

"Arthur?"

Arthur started, mortified to find that Merlin had stopped struggling and that Arthur had evidently been sat there straddling his belly, gazing – no, glaring – down at him for some moments now. Merlin was breathing heavily; with every inhalation, his stomach pressed against Arthur's crotch. Oh. _Oh._

Arthur hastily dropped the neckerchief and scrambled backwards. He stood, turned away from Merlin, and made a show of shaking himself like a wet dog. When he'd composed himself, he turned back around. Merlin was still sat on his backside looking up at him with an odd, intense expression.

"Up you get, Merlin," Arthur said, grudgingly offering his hand. "We’ve a long ride back. We'll be late enough as it is and I don’t fancy explaining why to my father." He looked away as Merlin took his hand. He'd planned to release it as soon as Merlin was upright, but Merlin gripped it and stepped in close, tugging on his arm.

"Arthur," he said, once he had his attention, "you wouldn’t have come to any harm, I swear."

"What are you on about?" Arthur said, distracted by a red welt that was coming up on one side of Merlin's neck. Not to mention the bits of dried grass stuck to his chin and strewn throughout his wild hair, the smudge of earth high on his cheek, the beads of water – or sweat? – that clung to all the creases in his skin.

"The kelpie. If she had… if something had gone wrong, I wouldn’t have let her hurt you."

Arthur snorted, but Merlin pressed on. "I _wouldn't._ You know that, right?"

Merlin released Arthur's arm only to place his hand flat against Arthur's chest, and Arthur was suddenly having trouble meeting Merlin's eyes. He swallowed and stared at Merlin's chest instead, at the gaping neckline of his tunic and what it exposed – another welt just below the collarbone, the barest hint of muscle, a scatter of dark hair – and now Arthur was suddenly having trouble thinking as well. Maybe he _had_ hit his head.

"I promised Gaius," Merlin continued. "That's why he didn't say anything to your father. I swore that you’d come to no harm and we both agreed that the less your father knew about the source of the clumpwort, the better."

"Merlin," Arthur said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too strangled, "why would my father be bothered by the fact that a water plant can only be found in a lake?"

"A lake inhabited by a _magical_ creature, Arthur."

Arthur finally tore his gaze away from Merlin's chest. "Who said anything about magic?"

It came out more harshly than he had intended. Merlin snatched his hand away from Arthur's chest, and Arthur held his breath and cursed himself for this lapse in his own private discipline – to try and tread more lightly around Merlin where the subject of magic was concerned, ever since their trip to Ealdor. He couldn’t fault Merlin for his devotion to a childhood friend. He'd wanted to talk to Merlin about it, but the whole subject had become more awkward in the wake of Gwen's father's death.

He watched as Merlin's face wobbled through a dizzying array of expressions, and only released his breath when he saw him settle on the one he'd secretly dubbed the “day we met face." It hovered between outrage and amusement, with a healthy dose of that strange (and strangely appealing) Merlin bravado.

"Are you serious?" Merlin said. "Arthur, I know you're only just recovered from an impressive swoon – not to mention sort of rolling off your horse into a ditch – but you cannot expect me to believe that you thought that that kelpie was ordinary, what with all the," and here Merlin began gesturing wildly around his face in a manner Arthur could only assume was meant to evoke the beast's terrifying visage. "It had hooves _and_ scales, Arthur. Scales and hooves. That is not natural. Not to mention acid spit and _flaming snots._ It's not something you run into on the average walk in the woods. Even _your_ average walk in the woods, which seems to involve rather more magical creatures than – "

"Merlin," Arthur broke in. "Stop your nattering. Of course I knew the kelpie was no ordinary beast – and for the record I did not _swoon,_ and I'll pretend I didn’t hear the part about the ditch – but I still fail to see what that has to do with lying to my father."

"Oh… er… guilt by association?" Merlin began shifting from one foot to the other, clearly ill at ease. "You know."

"No, I don't know," Arthur said. "Enlighten me."

"Because clumpwort only grows… I mean, because it was growing in a lake where a magical creature lives. He might think it tainted. With magic."

Arthur took a step forward and adopted his best training ground face, the one he used to intimidate the new recruits.

"And is it?" he said. He fervently hoped that Gaius had gotten round to teaching Merlin the finer points of plausible deniability; it was a lesson that had served many in his father's court well over the years.

"No! No, of course not." Merlin took a step back, shaking his head side to side. "Complete coincidence clumpwort growing in a lake guarded by a kelpie. Bizarre, that. What are the odds?"

"I'm sure I don’t know."

"Faint, sire. Slim to none." Merlin nodded sagely. "But as I mentioned, Gaius and I felt it best to be prepared, on the off chance."

"Of course. _Gaius_ is a most sensible man."

Merlin narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in a fierce pout. With the dirt on his cheek and the state of his hair, he looked like one of the wild men depicted in the books Arthur's nurse had read him as a child. Or a disgruntled wood nymph.

Arthur fought a smile. He knew that this should be the end of it. He should leave off with the banter, have some more water, order Merlin to check the horses – in short, resume his role as crown prince. But a terrible fondness was welling up in his breast, and if he didn’t do something about it he was afraid he might burst.

"A most sensible, well-mannered, well-groomed man," Arthur continued. "You, however," he swiftly advanced, snatching the damp neckerchief that dangled limply from Merlin's hand, "are a mess, per usual." He grasped Merlin by the back of the neck and twisted his head this way and that, as if trying to decide where to begin mopping up.

If Merlin gasped a little at this, his plump lips parting before clamping mulishly shut, then Arthur ignored it. And if Arthur felt a thrill, low in his belly, at the way the girth of Merlin's neck felt in his naked palm, then he ignored that, too. Instead he concentrated on the little things – each lash, each pore, each blade of grass, each pulse of the artery in Merlin's neck. And then, as the little things weren't helping Arthur ignore anything at all, he decided to ignore them as well. He brought the neckerchief to Merlin's cheek, and with fingers that were most certainly _not_ trembling, scrubbed at the smudge of dirt there. He knew he was being too rough – saw it in Merlin's eyes, felt it in the tension of his neck – but he couldn’t bear to be any gentler. The dirt was long gone by the time Arthur dropped his hands and stepped away.

He took a deep breath.

"That's much better," he said, grinning for all he was worth. "Now, what say you collect my armor and prepare the horses for our return journey, hmm?"

Arthur's back was turned when Merlin's muttered reply came, and although he couldn’t make out the exact words (many of which, Arthur was convinced, were Merlin's own inventions), he caught the general meaning. He looked back over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Merlin? Perhaps on the way back you’d care to explain, in detail, mind, how on earth _you_ could have protected me from an angry kelpie." It would prove a laugh, he thought. At the very least, it would serve as a distraction.

Much later, after he'd bathed and eaten and been metaphorically patted on the head by his father, Arthur admitted that, in the immediate afterglow of a successful adventure and far from the walls of the city, he'd been prepared to listen to – would have welcomed, even – almost any explanation Merlin might have given, no matter how wild or unlikely. The fact that Merlin did not even try – that, instead, he had stared miserably in front of him and told Arthur in a flat voice that he was right, that he hadn't really thought things through and must be as much of an idiot as everyone suspected him of being – hurt. It gave Arthur an uneasy feeling in his gut, and it made something in his chest, which was normally one of his most stalwart, dependable assets, feel shaky and raw.

Lying in the sultry dark of his chambers, Arthur was at a loss to explain these feelings, as he was neither ill nor wounded. He tried telling himself that perhaps it was only the aftereffects of having been low on fluids earlier in the day, but he'd been in that situation before, and it usually just left him exhausted and aching.

Then there was the fact that no physical ailment Arthur knew of could possibly explain why he had hung on to Merlin's neckerchief, tucking it up into his sleeve and even _lying_ to Merlin about dropping it somewhere. Guiltily, Arthur slipped a hand beneath his pillows and clutched at the swatch of fabric hidden there, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. It was dry now, and wrinkled from its earlier confinement.

Arthur rubbed it and thought of Merlin's deft fingers at his brow and, in contrast, his own rough ministrations when the tables had been turned. He thought of Merlin's bare neck, pale initially but now pink with sunburn from the ride home. At least Gaius would be able to give Merlin something for it soon – Arthur had left the two of them up to their elbows in clumpwort clippings and vats of fragrant goo. Arthur wondered what it would feel like if he were tasked with spreading the salve on Merlin's neck, if he were given permission to touch Merlin gently and mindfully, the pads of his fingers sliding over the worn cloth, the warm skin…


	2. Unbelievably Cold

  


Arthur was unbelievably cold.

They were well underground by now, deep in a system of caves near Camelot's western border. The warm, earthy smell in the upper caves had given way to a sharp mineral tang and then to the present icy nothingness. A damp chill worked its fingers through stitching and seams, clung to Arthur's limbs and clawed at his lungs.

If there were a giant feathered serpent guarding the Marchlyn Hoard (Uther had proclaimed the idea so much peasant superstition, meant to keep children away from the caves), then Arthur could understand why it hissed steam and spat hot coals. It would have to, just to keep from bloody well freezing. At least Arthur had a bit of bulk to protect him; he could only imagine how cold Merlin must be. Or rather, he could have imagined, but hadn't the need, given how loudly Merlin's teeth were chattering.

"Remind me again what you're doing here, Merlin? You were given leave to go home to Ealdor for the harvest festival. Morgana insisted. She put in a good fortnight's nagging on your behalf, you ungrateful wretch."

The chattering stopped, and Arthur heard a loud huff just over his right shoulder.

"I'm making sure you don’t blunder into a rock formation, knock yourself out and die of exposure before we find this treasure the king is so keen on having, sire."

Morgana really had been pestering Arthur for the past two weeks. It wasn't that Arthur needed convincing that Merlin deserved some time off, but rather that he had been reluctant to broach the topic with Merlin, afraid to see the eagerness on his face at a chance to get away from Arthur and Camelot. He had been thrilled when Merlin had quietly declined in favor of accompanying Arthur on this quest, but he hadn’t breathed easy until Merlin's meager belongings were piled beside his and they were poring over the map of the caverns.

Arthur grinned. Quests were so much more fun with Merlin along, and the best ones were when it was just the two of them, like this. Arthur was beginning to suspect that Merlin felt the same, given the elaborate reasoning he often employed to ensure that they traveled alone. This time it was some arse-backwards logic about how the knights would actually attract bandits, rather than dissuade them.

"Good of you to worry, Merlin, but hardly necessary. You heard Geoffrey. The legends say the treasure is destined to come into Pendragon hands."

"Yes, but not until – "

 _"Destined,_ Merlin. You can’t go messing about with destiny, can you? Besides, if there is any blundering to be done, I'd wager my best horse that it will be done by you. I’ve stopped counting how many times you've trod on my heels. And is it even possible to die of exposure underground?"

"Fine. You'll freeze to death then. Or get parboiled by the Marchlyn Wyrm."

"We've been over this, Merlin. There is no wyrm. Though I'm starting to wish there were; I think we could both do with some hot coals right about now."

Arthur heard Merlin suck in a sharp breath. Honestly, he was so easy to frighten. No doubt Merlin's forehead was wrinkled with anxiety, his lips gathered in an unhappy pout. All at the mere mention of a mythical beast.

"Careful what you wish for, sire," Merlin said softly. "And I may be a bit clumsy, but you're the one who is always winding up unconscious."

Arthur stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The torchlight gave Merlin's face an ethereal quality, and Arthur's next words came out much less fiercely than intended. He'd been having that trouble a lot lately.

"Only when you go assaulting my royal person with lumps of wood."

"What? Oh, but that was… that was to preserve the sanctity of your bachelorhood. And that was only the one time. All the other times you – "

"All the other times? All _what_ other times, Merlin?" And then Arthur was sorry he'd asked, really sorry, because Merlin raised the hand not holding the torch and took a deep breath, and Arthur just knew Merlin hadn’t sussed that that had been a purely rhetorical, you'd-best-keep-your-gob-shut-if-you-know-what's good-for-you sort of question and was preparing to count off Arthur's embarrassments on his fingers.

"One: Stalking the griffin. I… er… Lancelot told me he found you out cold with a rock for a pillow. And let's not forget that day you were supposed to fight the Black Knight. That's two."

"What? You can’t count that. Gaius _drugged_ me."

"Yes, well, if you had listened to reason he wouldn’t have had to. Three: The Labyrinth of Gedref."

"Drugged again! And to spare your life, I might add. Merlin, you can't – "

"Four: In the Questing Beast's cave, though technically that should be four _and_ five, as first you were knocked out from the impact, and later succumbed to its poison."

"Poison, exactly!" Arthur said. "It's hardly my fault that I was poisoned."

"No one said it was your fault," Merlin said, tilting his head to one side, "but it still counts. Now, where was I? I've run out of fingers. Oh, I know – six: Riding into that tree branch. Seven: The night you thought it would be a good idea to drop in on the tavern in disguise to find out, and I quote, 'how my people amuse themselves, of a feast day,' and wound up losing a battle of wills with a small cask of Bogrim's Winter Ale, all for the sake of your pride."

Arthur felt his cheeks go hot at this, largely because that one _had_ been his fault – allowing himself to be goaded into a drinking contest with that bear of a woodcutter had not been not one of his finer moments – but also because, the morning after, he'd been plagued by the feeling that he'd been loose with his tongue as well as his hands as Merlin had bundled him back to the safety of the castle. Not that Merlin had ever mentioned the incident until now.

"Merlin, about that night – "

"And, for the grand total of eight," Merlin continued hurriedly, "last month when you swooned away in your saddle after showing off for that kelpie because you were under the mistaken impression that crown princes thrive solely on honor and glory and not ordinary things like water. I'd say that is rather a lot of unconsciousness, even for a 'royal person' such as yourself."

"For the last time, Merlin," Arthur said, "I did not _swoon,_ and if I ever hear that you've even hinted as much to anyone at court I will have my next pair of boots made from your sorry hide. Furthermore – "

But Arthur never got to finish that sentence, because his ears were suddenly filled with a rumbling, roaring sound. He saw Merlin's eyes go wide and panicked in the torchlight before a gust of air blew the torches out. He felt the sting of sharp rock raining down like hail. Merlin cried out – something nonsensical, as usual – there was a brief glow in the dark, a strange pressure on his chest and then… nothing.

 

  


 

Arthur awoke to the inexplicable view of an arched ceiling of grey rubble just a few feet above his head. His back ached and his head felt tender, but he wasn't bleeding as far as he could ascertain. He rolled over, pushed himself onto his knees, and looked around.

The first thing he noticed was that he was trapped in a circular chamber of rubble, four or five feet high and thrice that across, almost eerie in its perfect symmetry and complete lack of mortar. The second thing he noticed was the surprising fact that he could see anything at all, given that the torches were nowhere in sight. Then, finally, Arthur looked behind him and noticed Merlin, propped up against the far side of the chamber. His face was streaked with dust and tears. His legs were drawn into his chest, one hand clenched white-knuckled around his ankle. And the other hand – the other…

Arthur swallowed. Merlin's other hand rested on the floor of the chamber, palm up, fingers splayed, and above it hovered a sphere made entirely of light – a bright, blue-white, familiar light.

In that instant, everything fell into place. And far from feeling angry or frightened or horribly betrayed, Arthur suddenly felt all his life's burdens lift. For Arthur had been right. He _did_ have someone looking out for him, only it wasn't a guardian angel, as his father had suggested, but Merlin. The often awkward, occasionally wise, frequently rude, ever loyal, and now undeniably magical, Merlin.

"Merlin," Arthur said, gazing at the ball of light in wonder. "Merlin. You." Not knowing what else to say – how to even begin expressing what he was feeling – he tore his gaze from the sphere of light to look at his face.

Then he saw the terror in Merlin's eyes, the tension in his limbs, and Arthur's burdens came crashing back down. His guardian angel was a sorcerer. His father killed sorcerers. The fact that this particular sorcerer was also Arthur's personal servant, about whom he fantasized almost nightly, did nothing for his case. His father already thought them over-familiar; he would only see bewitchment. Arthur looked away. He felt as if he'd taken a sudden blow to his gut.

"Arthur," Merlin said, his voice raw, as if he'd been screaming. Or crying. "Don't… just, don't say anything yet. We need to get out of here. I couldn't do it by myself, not while you were – "

"Unconscious," Arthur said, daring to look at Merlin again. He tried a smile, but obviously mangled it, as Merlin only looked more stricken.

"Yes. Once we're back on the surface, I can explain, or – or I won't say anything, if you like. Just please, please just let's get out of here. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this thing stable."

Arthur had been trained to keep calm in a crisis, to tamp down his emotions and assess the situation with a practical eye, so he sucked in his gut (hoping that would put paid to the discomfort there) and looked directly into Merlin's eyes.

"What do you need me to do?" he said. He counted the look of relief on Merlin's face as a triumph.

Arthur welcomed the ache in his shoulders, the strain in his back, the scraped hands and bruised knees he acquired as they tunneled their way out of the chamber. As his entire worldview had just been sent arse over kettle, it was good to know that rock was still rock, even when it was magically supported and illuminated.

At first, Arthur wondered if Merlin was holding back, afraid to reveal the extent of his powers, but it soon became clear that Merlin was exhausted. He helped only when the boulders were too massive for Arthur to shift, asking Arthur to look away (and though Arthur was burning with curiosity, refusal would have felt like a terrible violation of Merlin's privacy) as he reduced them to a cascade of pebbles with a command that sounded like a parched man trying to swallow dry bread.

It occurred to Arthur that Merlin's magic might be of a finite quantity in his body, like blood, and that the effort of sustaining the light and keeping the rock from collapsing on their heads could be draining him dry. Arthur redoubled his efforts. If Merlin – clearly afraid for Arthur's life, but with no thought of his own preservation – could give his all, then Arthur would as well.

Once they were clear of the cave-in, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He soon realized, however, that he was a fool to think everything would be easier just because they could walk unimpeded.

The glowing sphere sailed gamely on, lighting their way back to the surface, but Merlin flagged, stumbling over the uneven ground. He was favoring his left ankle. Arthur offered his arm, but Merlin flinched away, supporting himself on the cavern walls instead. He remained silent as well, apart from the occasional whispered command to the sphere when they came to a juncture. Arthur had about a hundred questions that he longed to ask, but he sensed that Merlin would neither hear nor answer him at the moment and thus kept his own, increasingly anxious, counsel.

At last the chill receded, and Arthur could smell the organic scent of growth and decay once more. They were nearing the mouth of the caves. Arthur looked at Merlin to see if he had noticed, but he trudged along like a spent horse, head down, feet dragging. Arthur sidled close and, when he could see the warm shimmer of daylight up ahead, placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"We're here, Merlin. You can… you can stop now. Or let it go. The light."

Merlin looked up then, and he seemed so lost, so foreign that Arthur almost let him pull away (as he was obviously trying to do, albeit feebly). But his stubbornness was familiar enough, as was the smell of his sweat and the dark swirl of hair at the nape of his neck, so instead Arthur grasped him by both shoulders and pulled him close, back to chest. He felt the faint vibration of Merlin’s body when the ball of light returned to Merlin’s outstretched hand and unraveled there in a swirl of blue and white sparks.

When Merlin subsequently collapsed, Arthur was there to catch him.

Just inside the cave entrance, there was a thin layer of soil and decaying leaves, allowing moss to flourish on the stone. Arthur lay Merlin down on the ground and pressed an ear to his chest. His heartbeat was regular, if faint. He seemed paler than usual, but he was still breathing. If Arthur had to guess, he would say that Merlin was in a deep sleep. Every so often his eyes would move rapidly beneath his eyelids, or his fingers would twitch.

Arthur removed his own jacket and folded it into a pillow for Merlin's head. He looked down at him for several long moments. Then he turned and walked out of the cave.

The cave mouth gave onto a rocky terrace that sat a few feet above the surrounding forest floor. Arthur chose a smooth spot warmed by the dappled afternoon sunshine and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the terrace. He needed to think.

In a rush of insight Arthur saw that, if actions truly spoke louder than words (as Father and Morgana were always telling him), then the question of what to do about Merlin had already been asked and answered many times over. He'd already chosen Merlin, long ago, when he'd seen Merlin coming towards him across the crowded marketplace and given in to the overwhelming urge to call out to him, to make him turn around – to make him mock, smile, beg, fight – to do _anything_ other than walk away.

And he'd kept on choosing Merlin nearly every day since then.

He had trusted Merlin. He had even (grudgingly) taken his counsel. He had defended him, lied for him, and fought alongside him. He had disobeyed direct orders from his father, proving himself willing on more than one occasion to risk his life and honor for Merlin.

And, on one memorable afternoon by the sea, he had downed a goblet of what he'd thought was poison; what was more, he'd done it gladly, knowing that his people would be saved and that Merlin would be there among them, safe as well, holding back neither his opinions nor his smiles, irritating and endearing himself in equal measure to all who spent time in his company.

Clearly, going by his own actions, Arthur wanted Merlin alive and in his life. The thought of sending him away was as unbearable as exposing him as a sorcerer. The only option, then, was to convince Merlin to remain by his side, and to do that Arthur got the feeling that he'd need to spill some secrets of his own.

After admitting that, the rest was comparatively easy, as it was only a matter of thinking through the details and the strategy – the what-ifs, the to-what-extents and the hows.

Arthur heard Merlin wake, gasping and flopping about like a landed fish, but remained where he was. He wanted to give Merlin time to compose himself and to see what he would do. It wasn't like he had a lot of options, unless he was prepared to die a cave hermit or could turn himself into a bird and fly away, but Arthur still wanted to allow him the choice, to know that he came to Arthur of his own free will.

Wait, Merlin couldn’t turn himself into a bird, could he? Fly away without a word? Because that would be completely unfair. Arthur was frantically scanning the sky when he heard tentative footfalls. Relieved, he looked over his shoulder.

"Come sit," he said.

Merlin came and sat, lowering himself gingerly and copying Arthur by dangling his legs over the edge of the terrace. He placed Arthur's jacket between them. Arthur looked at it and frowned. He picked it up, shook it out and shrugged his way back into it. Then he scooted over so his thigh was flush with Merlin's. He heard Merlin draw a sharp breath, and he turned his head to look at him.

"How are you feeling?"

And that was clearly not what Merlin had been expecting, as he shot Arthur a suspicious look.

"Um, okay." Then, as Arthur continued to study him, he added, "Ankle's sore and I'm a bit tired, but okay."

"Well, good. Because I wouldn’t want you to do yourself a permanent injury trying to surpass my record."

"Your… record?"

"For most times unconscious. In fact, I’d much prefer it if you withdrew from the competition altogether. After all, you've only got two times to my nine now. I think we can agree that that is pathetic and you've no hope at all of catching me up without bribing my knights to let you take their place in the lists. And that, oh faithful servant mine," Arthur slung an arm around Merlin's shoulders and leaned in close, "will never happen. Am I right?"

Merlin looked downright confused, but he let out a shaky laugh. "No. I mean, yes, right. But – "

"Not to mention," Arthur went on, his lips mere inches from Merlin's ear, "that it seems the contents of your head are rather more special than previously imagined, so I'd appreciate you taking good care of the vessel."

"Arthur, what – ?" Merlin pulled out of Arthur's grasp and turned his body to face him. His eyes were open wide, his lashes wet, his cheeks flushed pink beneath the grime and tearstains. "What are you saying, exactly?"

Arthur couldn't help himself. He reached out and touched his thumb to Merlin's forehead, just between his eyebrows.

"You are a sorcerer?"

"Yes." Merlin seemed to want to say more, but he held his tongue, held his breath and waited.

Arthur slid his thumb down the bridge of Merlin's nose and across one cheek, smudging the dirt there and pressing lightly at the prominent bone before settling his hand at the side of Merlin's neck. Merlin blinked, and Arthur felt his pulse race. He waited for Merlin to flinch or pull away, but it didn't happen. If anything, Merlin sort of leaned into his hand, as he often did when Arthur touched him, and Arthur realized that this was not the ordinary submission of a servant or sparring partner, and never had been. Which meant that Arthur had been a blind fool twice over.

"There is so much more I want to ask," Arthur said, "and believe me, we _will_ be having words about everything that has happened since you pitched up in Camelot. But I only have one question, for now." Arthur shifted himself so that he could place his other hand on Merlin's neck as well, thumbs resting in the hollows just behind his ears, fingers splayed along the expanse of pale skin. "Are you _my_ sorcerer?"

Arthur may have missed Merlin's, "Yes," amidst the rush of released breath, but his, "Of course, Arthur," was unmistakable, as was his, "Always."

Then there was the slight mix-up when Merlin went to kiss Arthur's ring just as Arthur was angling for Merlin's lips, but they sorted it out with a minimum of insults, and Arthur was finally able to make it quite plain that what he wanted from Merlin was not mere fealty but something far greater. He wanted Merlin’s trust and his affection, freely given. He wanted all the stupid made-up words, all the smiles, all the botched hunting trips and ridiculous adventures. He wanted never to be lied to again and never to be feared. And last, but certainly not least, he wanted to fall asleep stroking his skin, not his stale neckerchief.

He must have mumbled something to that effect just before they broke apart, as Merlin began to laugh, quietly at first, but soon building to something that bordered on hysterical.

"What?" Arthur said, stung. "What's so funny?"

"You," Merlin gasped out between laughs. "Me." He waved his hands between them. "Clothing."

Arthur looked at Merlin, then down at himself, and, granted they were both filthy and flushed and covered in scrapes, but he didn’t see anything that warranted such hilarity.

"What?" he repeated crossly, grabbing Merlin's hand.

When Merlin finally calmed down, he rubbed Arthur's fingers almost shyly and said, "Did you never wonder what became of your shirt that night we went to the tavern? The old brown one, that you used to like so much?"

"I assumed I'd sicked up on it. That you had burnt it or something as you hadn't been able to stomach washing it. Why?"

Merlin smiled. "You stripped it off and flung it at my head just before you passed out. And as you'd been so… well, friendly all evening and it smelt so strongly of you – not to mention that nice smoked boar we'd had for supper – I just took it. And, er, kept it. For sniffing like, when I felt lonely."

"Merlin! That's… I don't know what that is, but it isn't normal."

"Says the man who keeps a moldy old manservant's neckerchief under his pillow. And likes to _stroke_ it." Merlin waggled his eyebrows.

Arthur opened his mouth to tell Merlin to shut up, but then he remembered that he now had another way to achieve the same effect. He grasped Merlin by the front of his shirt and hauled him in for another kiss.

"Moldy old _sorcerer's_ neckerchief," Arthur whispered as he pulled away.

"I may be a bit ripe," Merlin said, sniffing at himself, "but I'm not moldy. And I'm younger than you."

Arthur laughed. "But you are, in fact, a sorcerer."

"Oh, Arthur," Merlin said softly. He pressed his forehead to Arthur's. "The way you said it – the way you _say_ it – I never dreamt…"

"Merlin, if you're trying to give me the power to read your thoughts, it isn’t working. You're going to have to finish one of those sentences."

Merlin huffed out a laugh. He pulled back and wrapped his arms around himself, looking out into the forest. "All this time, all the different ways I imagined telling you, or you finding out, all the different ways I imagined your reaction, I never dreamt you'd say it like that."

"Eh, still not following. You never dreamt I'd say what like what?"

"Sorcerer," Merlin said, turning back to face Arthur. He had tears in his eyes. "You say it like it's something," he fluttered his hands about, searching for the right word.

Arthur had several in mind, but he kept silent, wanting to hear what Merlin would say.

"Well, you don't say it like your father does, at any rate. He spits the word out like it's filthier than offal, lower than the heels of his boots."

Tears were running openly down Merlin's cheeks. Arthur captured Merlin's hands and pulled him in close, stroking the back of his neck. "Never," he said. "I never would. Understand that I love him, Merlin, as my father and my king, and that I must strive to be worthy of him. But I don't strive to _be_ him. I want to be – I will be – my own man."

Merlin said something with great feeling then, but it was muffled against Arthur's shoulder and Arthur couldn’t make it out. Given that most of the things Merlin said with great feeling were highly uncomplimentary, Arthur blissfully settled for ignorance.

They remained like that for a time, in an awkward half-embrace from the waist up, then broke apart as if by mutual consent, both of them surreptitiously wiping their eyes.

"Speaking of the king," Merlin said, "what are we going to do now?"

"Ride," Arthur said, glancing at the sky, then at Merlin. "I want to make it back to Camelot by nightfall." Now that Arthur had tasted what might be possible between them, he didn't want to waste any more time.

"What about the Marchlyn Hoard?"

"What about it? We haven’t got it, have we, so no sense hanging about."

Merlin began to play with the hem of his shirt, worrying it between his thumbs and forefingers. "You know," he said, "there may be another way into the caves, from the lake on the other side of the ridge. That should bring us in beyond the cave-in. We could always camp here tonight and ride there in the morning."

"Bugger the hoard," Arthur said fiercely, pushing himself off the edge of the terrace. Spending another night camping under the stars with Merlin was tempting, but it would only be a delaying tactic. Arthur wanted to start out with Merlin as he meant to carry on, and that meant carving out a space for this – whatever it was – within the walls of Camelot itself. He turned round and faced Merlin.

"We'll tell my father it wasn't where the maps indicated it would be, and that the cave-in happened on our way out."

Merlin sighed. "Well, thank goodness for that. I think I've had enough of caves to last me a lifetime. Plus Gaius and I are fairly certain…" Merlin flashed Arthur a guilty look.

Arthur raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Yes?"

"We suspect that the hoard is cursed. To prevent anyone but a legitimate seeker from finding it."

"According to Geoffrey, I _am_ a legitimate seeker," Arthur said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Any male of the Pendragon line – why are you rolling your eyes, Merlin? You saw the words for yourself, there on the parchment."

"Don't suppose you noticed the borders then?"

"Borders? Of course I noticed the borders. We're well within – "

"Not _Camelot's_ border's, Arthur, the borders of the _map._ All those symbols written round its edges."

"The chicken-scratch? I thought it was one of those fiddly things scholars do when they have too much time and ink."

"It was a prophecy," Merlin said, a smile playing round the corners of his lips. "Written in runes. False seekers will not return from the caves, at least not sane or whole, and even a legitimate seeker won't find the treasure before the appointed time. According to the Great…er, well, according to Gaius' calculations, now is not the appointed time. You can't claim the hoard until you're king."

Arthur sighed. "And neither of you thought to mention this to my father?"

"Would he have listened if we had?"

Arthur shrugged and Merlin made a disgusted noise.

"Arthur, you saw the way his eyes lit up when he saw the map. He'd just been handed the key to something he'd previously thought was only a myth; Geoffrey said he'd been seeking such proof since his boyhood!"

"But still, Gaius should have said something."

"Gaius did urge caution, but what else could he do? Can you imagine what would have happened if he'd told your father that, based on my reading of the _secret magical language_ on the map, this quest was likely doomed to failure?" Merlin made a head-chopping-off gesture, then pantomimed doing something very disgusting to the decapitated head.

Arthur sighed again. "All right, I see your point – no, really, Merlin, I do, and you can stop that now."

"Well then."

"Well then, indeed." Arthur ran his hands through his hair. He paced a bit in front of Merlin, then hoisted himself up on the little ledge again at Merlin's side, drumming his heels against the rock.

"So," he said, turning his head to look at Merlin, "you would give up a full belly and the sight of your esteemed mother to accompany me on a quest you knew to be pointless?"

"Pointless and _dangerous."_

"Aha! So that's why you insisted on coming. Assumed I'd need magical rescuing? Mistake me for a distressed damsel? I am lovely, I know." Arthur nudged Merlin in the ribs with an elbow.

"Um."

"And, no doubt, why you didn't want the guard tagging along. Fewer knights to knock out, eh? Fewer wildly improbable stories about falling tree branches or invisible bandits?"

"Something like that."

Arthur studied Merlin's face closely. "There's still something you're not telling me."

Merlin blinked slowly, then looked directly into Arthur's eyes. "Would you believe me if I started prophesying things about our grand destiny? We'll be legend, you know. As long as we stay together. And you always listen to my advice."

Arthur shook his head, laughing. "Fate's not that cruel. Try again."

Merlin looked down at his hands. When at last he spoke the teasing note had gone from his voice. He sounded tired.

"I'd rather be with you, Arthur. I'd rather be with you than anywhere else. Even if you don't need saving from cave-ins and curses and magical creatures."

Arthur stopped drumming his heels against the rock. "Even if you could be home in Ealdor, stuffing yourself round a bonfire, without fear of being executed?"

"Especially then." Merlin smiled ruefully. "I'd only think of the last time we were there. About you. And Will."

Arthur looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I am sorry about what happened, Merlin. But Will died saving my life, and I’ll always honor him for that."

It hurt Arthur to speak of such things, but if Merlin could stand it, then so bloody well could he. And then he thought of something. The odds of having his life saved on separate occasions by two different insolent, yet brave, young men of Ealdor within a year had to be slim, but what were the odds that they both had magic? He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh God, but Will wasn't… that was you." Arthur glanced at Merlin.

Merlin blinked, nodded, and looked at Arthur as if he were especially dim. "Well, yes."

And Arthur had stood there while Will's body burned and lectured Merlin on being friends with sorcerers. He really was an insensitive prat, wasn't he? He'd have to start making it up to Merlin. Preferably tonight.

No one would think twice about Arthur ordering a hot bath and heaps of food upon returning from a quest; nor would they question his insistence that Merlin stay up half the night in attendance. And door bolts – as everyone in the castle _except_ Merlin knew very well – were there for a reason.

"Merlin, I'm – "

"But Will's only part of it," Merlin broke in. "Ealdor is no longer home, not really. Camelot is home now. You… you're…" Merlin scrubbed at his face with his shirtsleeves and looked away.

Arthur allowed himself a small, private smile before leaning in and giving Merlin a solid, manly shoulder nudge. He pushed himself off the ledge and started towards the tree where they'd tied their horses. "Come on, you. Shift your lazy magical arse. It's a long ride home and I fancy shooting something tasty on the way."


	3. Utterly Content

Arthur was utterly content.

He was grimy and ravenous and still many miles from Camelot, forced to a slow trot because it was clear that Merlin was drained from his efforts in the caves (and lame in one ankle to boot). But it was also clear that something in the stars was, for once, aligned in their favor, as the weather remained mild, the daylight lingered, and the horses found an easy path through the forest. And the hunting, in contrast to, well, every other instance of hunting with Merlin, _ever,_ had never been better. Plump and docile woodland creatures seemed desperate to fling themselves within range of Arthur's crossbow. Merlin winced each time, and after Arthur bagged his fifth hare and his sixth bird in quick succession, he begged him to stop.

"I think they're drawn to… oh, I can’t explain it, Arthur, but it's not fair," he muttered.

"Can't or won't?" Arthur said, stringing up his latest acquisition.

"Are you ready to hear about our grand destiny yet?"

Arthur glanced at Merlin out of the corner of his eye. "Our grand destiny involves large quantities of fresh game? Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

Merlin closed his eyes and exhaled loudly through his nose.

"What? What did I say?"

Merlin shook his head. "So very shiny, yet so very dim," he said, then mumbled something about pea-brained woodcocks having more sense of occasion.

Arthur, worried that Merlin was passing into the hallucinatory stages of exhaustion, stashed his crossbow and focused on getting them home.

After the horses were handed off to the stable boys and the other servants dispatched to fetch food and hot water, Arthur slung Merlin's arm around his neck and started towards his chambers. Merlin's mouth protested, but his body acquiesced, slumping heavily against Arthur.

Once inside, Arthur propped Merlin against a cupboard until the servants left, then ordered him, in no uncertain terms, to feed himself and wait in the bath for Arthur's return.

"Where are you going?" Merlin said, already eyeing the steaming kettle of soup, the platters piled high with roast pork and chicken, the bowls of glistening fruit and sweetmeats. The room smelled of nutmeg and herbs, and there was a fire crackling away in the hearth.

"To make my report to Father."

"Now?" Merlin whined. "Can’t it wait until – ?"

Arthur darted forward and silenced him with a kiss, brief and unremarkable save for the fact that it was the first they'd shared within the castle. He pulled away, noting with amusement the startled look on Merlin's face. Stealth kisses were clearly highly effective when it came to upsetting Merlin's equilibrium.

"No. I need to do this," Arthur said, giving Merlin's shoulder a squeeze. He needed to know that he _could_ do this, be loyal to his father and Merlin both, respecting Camelot's present while creating a refuge in which to contemplate its future.

"But – "

"Duty before pleasure, Merlin."

Merlin's lips spread into a wide, easy grin. "Pleasure, am I now?" he murmured, reaching out and placing the tip of his forefinger on Arthur's lips. "I like that a far sight better than 'you idiot.'"

Arthur swatted Merlin's finger away with a groan. "You hussy, more like." He grasped Merlin by the shoulders and turned him around. "Go. Eat. Bathe," he commanded, gently pushing him towards the table. "I'll return as quick as I can."

The guards outside the council chamber hesitated when Arthur gave the order to open the door, and Arthur knew full well why. He was filthy, covered in rock dust and road dust and blood from gutting hares. He had all manner of scrapes and bruises from shifting rubble and he'd nearly worn out the knees on his trousers.

Normally he would have cleaned himself up before such an audience, taking the time to compose himself and his account. But on this night he did not want the armor of fresh clothing and a well-crafted tale. Tonight he would present himself as he was, covered in filth, not caring that his father could see exactly what the day had made of him. Because, Arthur realized, he was not ashamed of anything he'd done today, nor anything he intended to do.

Arthur cleared his throat impatiently and the guards, realizing their error, muttered an apology and swung the doors open.

"Here is your treasure, father," Arthur said, striding the distance between door and table with his arms spread wide. "I'm afraid it is all I have to show for today's adventure. Well, apart from a modest supply of fresh game, but I sent that on to the kitchens."

"Arthur, what is the meaning of this? What of the hoard?"

"The map might be real, but I'm afraid the hoard was a myth after all. Gaius was right to caution us against seeking it. There was nothing to be found in those caverns but stone, much of it rotten. One of the passages nearly collapsed on top of my head, and it is only thanks to Merlin that I escaped with my life."

He saw the exact moment when his words sunk in, when his father finally noticed his appearance. Much to Arthur's surprise, his father walked the length of the room, clasped him to his breast, filth and all, and said, "My son," and, "Gaius and I were starting to… but no matter. Thank God you’re safe."

Arthur tensed, waiting for the "but" that would turn relief into a challenge, another battle of wills, but it never came.

When Arthur excused himself to bathe and eat, promising a fuller account of their adventure in the morning, his father waved a hand expansively and said, "Of course. Of course. You've had quite a day. Oh, and Arthur?"

"Yes, Father?"

"Give that manservant of yours some reward, whatever you think appropriate."

Arthur grinned like a mad fool all the way back to his chambers. Giddy with expectation, he slipped inside.

Merlin was snoring away in the bath, his head tipped back against the rim of the tub, his cheeks flushed pink from the steam.

Under the circumstances, none of Arthur's usual reactions to coming across Merlin napping in his chambers – slamming the door, throwing pillows, clattering his gauntlets against the table – seemed appropriate, so he closed the door as quietly as he could and bolted it behind him.

What exactly was the protocol for the seduction of a sleeping sorcerer-cum-manservant, in particular one such as Merlin? After a brief hesitation, Arthur stripped out of his clothes and left them in a pile beside his changing screen. Ignoring the towel slung over the top of the screen, he padded over to the table. He made short work of a chicken leg, chasing it down with a goblet of wine, and popped a few grapes into his mouth. He watched Merlin the entire time.

There wasn't much of him showing above the cloudy bathwater – his head and neck, of course, plus the bony islands of his kneecaps, bruised and abraded from crawling on the cavern floor – but it was enough to make Arthur's hands jealous of his eyes. He'd been making do with looking for long enough. He was still hungry, however, and in a fit of inspired compromise that he thought boded well for Camelot's future, he dumped a bunch of grapes and a portion of chicken onto a plate, which he carried over and set down next to the bath.

"Merlin." Arthur caught one of Merlin's earlobes between finger and thumb and gently tugged.

"Ngh… shwat?"

"Merlin, wake up."

"Arthur?"

"Were you expecting someone else?"

Merlin smiled sleepily. "Well, no, but," and then his mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. "Arthur, you're… you've got no clothes on."

"A genuine sage, that's what you are. When I'm king I'm going to make you my chief advisor. Now budge up, I'm coming in."

Merlin sat up, water streaming down his pale shoulders. "I've dirtied it though. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. Meant to get you fresh."

Given what Arthur hoped to do, sharing bathwater seemed the height of hygiene, but he hadn't yet drunk enough wine to voice such thoughts aloud. So instead he said, "Duly noted. I'll know who to blame when I catch some dreadful peasant disease. Now shift. And please tell me you've some soap hidden in there somewhere. I've got blood all down my arms."

"What?" Merlin turned abruptly, causing waves of bathwater to slop over the sides of the tub. "Oh my God, Arthur, what happened?"

"Not mine, you dolt! It's from gutting the hares. No need to go drowning perfectly good chicken."

"Oh," Merlin said, scooting forward. "How did things go with your father?"

"Rather well, actually." Arthur placed his hands on the rim of the bath and carefully lowered himself in behind Merlin. "Seemed pleased to see me in one piece. He told me I should give you – "

"Hang on – did you just say something about drowning _chicken?"_ Merlin tried to twist round again but Arthur had settled his legs along the sides of the bath and now Merlin was trapped in between them.

Arthur chuckled. He reached down and snagged a chicken leg from the plate on the floor. He leaned forward, pressing his chest against Merlin's back.

"Chicken, meet Merlin. Merlin, Chicken," he said, reaching over Merlin's shoulder and waggling the leg in front of his face. He then proceeded to devour it, munching loudly in Merlin's ear. When he was finished he licked his fingers and tossed the bones back over the side of the tub.

"Pig."

"Oh, a pig, am I? Then perhaps you'd care to stuff me?" Arthur snagged the bunch of grapes and dangled them before Merlin's eyes. He felt more than heard Merlin's gasp – a delicious shudder that passed between them – but was still surprised by the heat in Merlin's expression when he looked back over his shoulder.

"Do you even hear yourself, Arthur?"

Arthur shrugged. He'd only intended to goad Merlin into feeding him by hand – a particular fantasy of his. Then he registered all the places where his and Merlin's flesh were in contact, recalled one or two memorable lines from bawdy verse (and one or two images from his even bawdier dreams), and understood. The next few moments were lost to posterity, as far as Arthur's recollections were concerned, as they involved a rapid southerly relocation of vital fluids.

When he could scrape his thoughts together once more, Arthur realized that being hand-fed grapes by Merlin had slipped down the roster, as far as fantasies went, and that the fantasies currently topping his list were unlikely to come true if he didn't find some way of distracting himself from acting like a randy boy who'd just discovered a new use for butter.

Arthur lowered the grapes back onto the plate and cleared his throat.

"Perhaps," he said, ashamed of how uncertain he sounded, but at the same time knowing that Merlin was the one person he could stand to have hear him like this, "we should finish scrubbing up first?"

Arthur almost couldn't bear the pause the followed, but before he could start mentally flogging himself, Merlin pulled away ever-so-slightly, just enough to restore Arthur's dignity, and passed him soap and a rag.

"Thank God," Merlin said. "I didn't want to ask before, but I don't think I got all round the back of my ears."

"Who could ever hope to, really, in one lifetime?" Arthur replied. And it turned out that this new thing with Merlin was going to be as easy as that, as easy as slipping into warm bathwater and well-worn jibes.

He scrubbed behind Merlin's ears and all down his neck (which was already quite clean, but Arthur couldn’t help himself) and then ceded the cloth to Merlin. Small tidal waves ensued when they switched positions, and the simple pleasure of Merlin's touch was heightened by his whispered, "I do hope what is left of that poor chicken has learned to swim," and inane greetings to Arthur's various scars.

In Arthur's experience, men often dealt out what they expected in return. He did his best, then, to catalog where Merlin touched him and how, and how this made him feel, so that he could reciprocate later (several regions of his body he'd previously thought unremarkable – the skin behind his earlobes and between his fingers, the creases at his elbows and just below the ridges of his hip bones – had clearly been keeping secrets from him). His concentration was utterly shattered, however, when Merlin trailed his fingers in the water near Arthur's thigh, whispered a series of words – crisp like apples, then sticky like honey – and the murky, cooling bathwater was suddenly clear and welcoming warm.

He must have twitched or gasped in response, because Merlin mumbled an apology in his ear and said, "Should have warned you. Gaius says I… well, I'm not really supposed to use it for little things like this." Arthur felt Merlin's warm, wet hands settle on his shoulders.

"Not that this is little, not to me. It feels – oh, God, Arthur – it feels so good not having to hide this from you. It feels _right."_ Merlin clutched Arthur's shoulders and pressed his face into the side of his neck, inhaling deeply. He opened his lips as he exhaled, sending a puff of hot air across Arthur's skin, and then he – well, Arthur didn’t want to call it nuzzling, but it involved Merlin's nose and lips and tongue getting awfully cozy with Arthur's neck.

Somewhere between the ardent words and the sensation of being so thoroughly _savored,_ Arthur found himself aching hard once more.

"Don't worry though," Merlin whispered between nibbles, "I know it'll take some getting used to. I'll try not to do it in front of you, if you like. I've been told my eyes change color, which I imagine could be off-putting, but I can – "

"Merlin?" Arthur heaved himself up. He turned around, flinging water everywhere, including onto Merlin, whose upturned face was a mask of… well, Arthur wasn't certain, but it involved glassy eyes and a slack jaw with very plump lips only inches from Arthur's…

"Ulp," Merlin said.

Arthur reached down and caressed Merlin's cheek with the back of his hand. "No, Merlin, not 'ulp' – 'up.' As in shut _up_ and get _up_ and come bloody well here."

He opened his arms and Merlin surged up into them. Arthur pulled him close and squeezed gently. Every nerve in his body felt alive, but tranquil, as if the thrill of a joust and the wine that flowed in its wake had been combined in his veins.

"Now," he said, pitching his voice low and loving the way Merlin's cock pulsed against his stomach in response, "be a good _sorcerer_ and conjure us a towel. And if you think flashing your magic eyes at me is going to diminish this," Arthur pressed his erection into Merlin's hip, "then you will be sorely disappointed."

He released Merlin and stepped back, taking pleasure in the way Merlin's wet skin looked in the firelight. In the way Merlin spluttered and gulped. In the way he closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and gave his testicles a tug. Arthur smirked. He knew what that meant; he'd done it himself when he'd wanted something more than a quick release.

When Merlin reopened his eyes, they were narrowed and glittering. He drew himself up to his full height (which was, to Arthur's admittedly petty dismay, greater than his own) and Arthur's smugness drained away to be replaced by awe. Merlin glanced towards the changing screen and the towel hanging there, then locked eyes with Arthur. Slowly he extended his right arm, palm out, and spread his fingers.

 _"Bringan clút."_

Like this – intent, assured, golden-eyed – Merlin was the equal of any of Arthur's knights for grace and splendor.

Arthur was so caught up in admiring the powerful sorcerer version of Merlin that he almost missed seeing the towel sail through the air towards Merlin's outstretched hand. So when Merlin gestured with his hand and the towel abruptly changed course, Arthur had no time to react before finding himself enveloped in cloth. By the time he fought his way free, Merlin was Merlin the idiot manservant once more, snickering and attempting to look innocent. (And failing miserably at the latter, what with his rampant erection.)

"My apologies, sire. My aim is usually much better. I must have been distracted." Merlin's gaze dropped to Arthur's crotch.

"Why, you cheeky – Merlin!" Arthur lashed out with the towel. Merlin scrambled out of the tub with a laugh and backed slowly away, limping, towards the bed.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He stepped out of the tub. He took his sweet time drying himself, never letting his gaze leave Merlin, who just kept on standing there, dripping and shivering and smiling – not the "best secret ever" smile, but something pretty damn close – and so what could Arthur do but capture him with the towel and manhandle him the few remaining feet to the bed? There was a struggle with the bedclothes and a brief tussle, but at last Arthur had Merlin flat on his back, bundled up in the towel like a sausage in pastry and looking twice as edible.

Arthur took this opportunity to explore a variety of kisses, from the desperate, passionate kind they had shared at the cave entrance to the merest press and drag of his lips along Merlin's skin. He kissed Merlin's brow, his ears, his cheekbones, and all down one side of his glorious neck and up the other – twice. He kissed Merlin's pale shoulders and nosed at the tufts of dark hair peeking out from his armpits. He traced the line of his jaw with his tongue and sucked on his earlobes. He worked his fingers through Merlin's damp curls, admiring the way they looked against his skin and the snowy white of the sheets. He rubbed his nose alongside Merlin's, whispered, "You, oh… you," and told himself that none of these things were ridiculous or unmanly or wrong because Merlin was squirming and begging beneath him, trying to work his arms free of the towel and looking up at him like he was all good things under heaven.

At length he sat back and let Merlin untangle himself. Merlin flung the towel away with an exultant cry and hauled Arthur back down on top of him, spreading his legs so Arthur could lie between them and that – oh, that! – was so much better than his own fist, feeling all that hot skin that wasn't his own rising up to meet him, thighs squeezing his hips and hands clutching his shoulders and lips drinking in his tongue. Teeth grazing his ear, panted breaths and, "Arthur, please? I don’t care how. I've only… given before. Mostly with hands, but I can try… I want…"

Arthur stilled.

"You've done this before?" Jealousy flared hot and ugly in Arthur's breast. He'd only recently allowed himself to admit to his desires in waking hours, and all this time Merlin had been merrily sporting elsewhere? Giving himself – those lips, those hands, those smiles – away cheaply in the lower town?

"No! Not really. Not with… I mean, Will and I used to dare one another to touch each other's pricks, like mates do, you know?"

Arthur shook his head in wonder, his jealousy subsiding. He could not resent a man who had died saving his life and, as he now knew, protecting Merlin's. "I obviously had all the wrong mates."

Merlin gave Arthur a shy smile. "And one time after the harvest festival we ended up back at his, silly on Farmer Grummergen's potato wine, and he asked me to… to plow his rear field."

"Plow his… oh, oh I see. How very …agrarian." Arthur pushed himself up until he was kneeling between Merlin's thighs. "Pray tell me, Merlin, how did you fare with the plowing?"

Merlin blushed. "Not well. Not at first, anyway. We were pretty drunk. I mistook the candle drippings for the goose fat and Will ended up with wax all over his… er, but eventually we got it sorted and it felt good, of course it felt good, but it was kind of weird and all. Will kept putting on silly voices, including Farmer Grummergen's. In the end we neither of us could stop laughing long enough to get off properly. So."

Arthur had been trying to keep a straight face, he really had, but the mental imagery was too much and he burst out laughing.

Merlin covered his face with his hands, then peeked up at Arthur from between his fingers. "I've just ruined the mood, haven’t I?" he said.

"Not a chance," Arthur replied, still chuckling, "So. Let me get this straight. No potato wine. No candle wax, no silly voices and absolutely no Farmer Grummergen. But otherwise you're open to the concept of – how did you put it – plowing?"

The blush on Merlin's face had spread down to his chest by now. He still had his hands over his face, but he nodded enthusiastically. "Except I think I'd like to try it the other way round. You in… in me, if you don’t mind."

"If I don’t _mind,_ you say? How very considerate of you, Merlin. You _would_ find your manners at a moment like this. Now, I don’t think I have any goose grease about, but – "

"Gaius' clumpwort salve," Merlin interrupted, his hands parting like shutters. "Fresh pot. In with your socks. Should do the trick."

"Do I want to know why, or rather how you – no, never mind," Arthur said, shaking his head to clear it of the image of what his socks, Merlin and Gaius' salve had to do with one another. "Can I trouble you to – ?" Arthur gestured at Merlin's eyes. He tried not to smile at how pleased Merlin looked, schooling his face into a stern mask. He leaned down and gripped Merlin's jaw. "But take care with your aim this time round, yes? Because if you hit me in the head with something I plan to put in your arse, then the mood _will_ be off, permanently. I will never bed you so long as I live, understood?"

Merlin nodded meekly, but then his eyes flashed gold and his lips parted round that rich, strange language, his throat working like he was swallowing un-watered wine, and there was nothing meek about him at all. He handed the pot of salve to Arthur without comment, shifting himself up the bed and spreading his legs wider, and Arthur was nearly undone by this display of effortless power and absolute trust.

Arthur set the pot down and dove in for another round of kisses, but he was too preoccupied by thoughts of being inside Merlin to do much more than gasp wetly into Merlin's mouth and rut against him.

So when Merlin started in with another round of begging, this time with more specific instructions, like, "Touch me, Arthur. Down there. I want… I want your fingers inside me. And then your – oh, God – your cock. Your fat, prattish royal cock. All these months – I could feel it when you'd sit on me. You'd act like nothing was happening, you… you sanctimonious codpiece! And I wanted it. I want it. In me. Please," Arthur hadn’t the heart to deny him.

He tore the linen covering off the pot of salve, dipped two fingers inside and burrowed down between Merlin's legs, shocking Merlin (and himself) by planting a wet, messy kiss on the dusky skin around Merlin's entrance before painting it with the salve on his fingers.

At Merlin's bidding, he gradually worked one finger inside. When he felt Merlin relax and start to thrust against his finger, he withdrew it and came back with two. It was still tight going at first, but once breached, Merlin's body proved most welcoming, and Arthur was in awe over how hot it was, at the insistent velvet suck of it. It wasn't long before he was panting out something between an endearment and a warning, coating himself with the slippery salve and desperately rubbing his cockhead against all that greedy heat.

He was just starting to work it inside, past that first ring of intense pressure, gritting his teeth a little at the effort of holding back, when Merlin gave a hoarse cry and just slid, just thrust himself down and Arthur suddenly found himself fully sheathed inside Merlin, staring at their joined bodies and dazedly thinking that now he knew why people composed all those bawdy songs, because to know this – to know that such bliss could be had and not want to sing about it, not want to shout it from the castle turrets – was unthinkable.

"Arthur!"

Arthur felt a hand on his face and looked up. Merlin's eyes were glistening, and Arthur was gripped by fear that he'd hurt him, but then he saw that his eyes _weren’t_ glistening; rather, they were shining in a pale, gold, special Merlin kind of way, and Merlin was only angling for a kiss, which Arthur was only too happy to give.

As their lips met, Arthur felt a strange sensation wash over him, like coming near a fire after being out on winter patrol, or removing his armor after a long day in the lists. He felt raw and new and free. Merlin deepened the kiss, then broke away and lay back, hooking his legs round Arthur's back and urging him to move. Arthur gathered Merlin's cock firmly in one hand, braced himself on the bed with the other, and began to move.

With every thrust, with every flex of Merlin's body around him, Arthur's feeling of well-being increased. With every gasp and moan, with every nonsensical word that dripped from Merlin's lips, the future seemed more and more secure.

 

 

A flood of daylight woke Arthur, washing over his face. Squinting, he opened his mouth to tell Merlin that he'd seen the sight of his own chamber windows before, thank you very much; there was no need to go dramatically yanking the drapes aside just because a new day had begun.

Then he realized that Merlin couldn't possibly have opened the drapes, as Merlin was sprawled on his back beside Arthur, snoring softly and making obscene smacking motions with his lips.

Arthur thought of all the things he'd said and done the night before as he watched the light spill over Merlin's pale skin. His cheeks grew warm, but he knew that he would say and do all of those things again, even in the brightest daylight, because at last he knew what he wanted. And, as his father had taught him, a Pendragon who knew what he wanted was a force to be reckoned with; he would not be dissuaded from his objective, not even by his own modesty or sense of pride.

Arthur settled on his side, facing Merlin. He reached out and placed his hand on Merlin's chest, palm pressed against the faint puckered scar just below Merlin's breastbone (another question for later).

"Merlin?" he said, shaking him gently.

The snoring abated, but Merlin's eyes remained closed. He smacked his lips a few more times, then, with a huge yawn, rolled away from Arthur, pulling Arthur's arm – and Arthur – along with him. He burrowed his head down between two of the pillows and hugged a third to his chest, pinning Arthur's arm in place.

Arthur, now forcibly spooned along Merlin's back, noted that most of the pillows had ended up on Merlin's side of the bed. He decided that he didn’t much care; Merlin was more than adequate recompense for loss of pillows. Arthur rubbed his face against Merlin's shoulder, breathing in his scent.

"Merlin?" he repeated.

"No," came the muffled reply.

"No?"

"No, I'm not leaving. I claim this divine fortress of pillowy goodness as my rightful territory, and I'm not coming out until my beard has gone grey. Once I've grown a beard, that is."

"Ha! Knew you were awake." Arthur wrenched his arm from Merlin's grasp and lifted one of the pillows covering Merlin's face. "It is _my_ bed, Merlin. By what right do you claim it?"

Merlin opened his lids halfway and peered up at Arthur. "To the thoroughly despoiled go the spoils? Or… er… the site of said despoiling?"

"That doesn’t make any sense," Arthur said, grinning. He flung the first pillow over his shoulder and grasped the second. Merlin caught on too late and was left exposed, blinking in the bright morning light. He tried to cover his face with the pillow he'd been snuggling, but Arthur yanked that one away as well and tossed it out of reach.

Merlin gave up and raised himself onto his elbows, glaring.

"Oh come on, Arthur. You've got a whole ruddy kingdom to lord it over. Why can’t I have one eensy-weensy bed?"

"You have an eensy-weensy bed. In Gaius' tower. I've seen it."

Merlin sat up abruptly, flinging the bedclothes aside. _"That_ is no bed, Arthur," he said earnestly. "It is a devilish torture device gussied up in a pillow and stripy blanket – and not even a proper pillow, more like a lumpy, musty sack of old grain – and it should be ashamed of itself for ever calling itself… um… masquerading as… erm."

Merlin's gaze traveled along Arthur's newly-exposed lower half, settling on his cock, which was still exhibiting effects of its recent encounter with Merlin's backside.

He shook his head, looked back at Arthur's face.

"Sorry, what was I saying again?"

Arthur laughed. He tugged Merlin down and rolled partway on top of him, sliding one leg between Merlin's and trapping his own cock against Merlin's thigh.

"You were disparaging your usual sleeping accommodation." Arthur thrust forward slightly, increasing the pressure on his cock and nudging behind Merlin's balls with his knee. "And attempting to usurp my bed using suspect legal reasoning."

"Ah, yes." Merlin took a shaky breath and pushed back against Arthur's leg. He groaned softly on his exhale, lips parted. His eyelids fluttered closed. "Well, I only meant that – "

"All right," Arthur said. "It's yours."

"Hmm?" Merlin was slowly rocking himself against Arthur's leg.

"This bed. I cede it to you. When we are both in it, that is."

Merlin stilled and opened his eyes. He looked rather dazed.

"What, seriously?"

"Yes." Arthur skimmed two fingers up Merlin's chest, then tapped him on each shoulder in turn. "I proclaim thee Lord and Master of Prince Arthur's Bed."

Merlin grinned. "You can’t cede it to me and then call it _your_ bed, you prat. It'll have to be just Lord and Master of Bed."

Arthur shrugged. "Suit yourself. But mine sounded better."

Merlin cupped one hand around Arthur's jaw. "Did anyone ever tell you that you are amazingly bad at relinquishing territory?"

Arthur turned his head, kissed Merlin's palm. "Not a skill I want to excel at, as I hope not to do it much."

"And so you shan't," Merlin said enigmatically, stroking the side of Arthur's face.

Arthur let this pass. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to just enjoy the feeling of Merlin's kind fingers mapping the lines of his face and carding through his hair.

At length he opened his eyes and captured Merlin's hand in his own. He gave it a warning squeeze.

"I'm serious, Merlin. The bed is as far as I'll go. I won't have you going power mad and trying to annex my wardrobe in a year's time."

Merlin laughed and squeezed Arthur's hand in return.

"I was thinking I'd try for your chair first, the one with the furs, for winter."

"Already plotting? I see I shall have to show you your place."

"Oh, I _know_ my place, sire. I am Lord and Master of Bed, and as such I command you to… to touch my cock."

Arthur could only stare as Merlin, blushing, brought Arthur's hand to his mouth, closed his eyes, and began to bathe it with his tongue like a cat. When Arthur's palm was damp, Merlin opened his eyes. He released Arthur's hand, settled his own arms behind his head and raised an eyebrow.

Arthur did not need to be told twice. He surged up and over Merlin, leaning down for a kiss. He took Merlin's tongue in his mouth at the same moment he took Merlin's cock in his fist, and the next several minutes were lost to the intense pleasures of various types of skin-on-skin friction.

Merlin came first, panting out appreciative nonsense and clutching Arthur's hair. Arthur buried his face in the crook of Merlin's neck and rutted vigorously against his thigh, the pressure almost too much until suddenly it was perfect – sharp and sweet – and Arthur was shuddering his own release over Merlin's hip and belly.

Arthur lay slumped over Merlin until he'd recovered his breath, then untangled himself and rolled onto his back. He drowsed for a time until Merlin's quiet laughter woke him.

"What?" he said, turning his head towards Merlin, who was gazing up at the bed's canopy.

"I was just thinking how nice it is to be a man of property."

Arthur snorted.

"So, to clarify, the moment I set foot outside this bed, I go back to being just your manservant?"

"Not _just_ my manservant, dimwit. But, essentially, yes."

Merlin looked at Arthur, clearly amused. "You do realize I now have absolutely no incentive to leave this bed ever again?"

Arthur reached over, prodded Merlin's lean stomach. "You'll need to eat, Merlin, and I certainly won't be waiting on you."

"Oho, but you forget." Merlin waved his fingers in the air, then pointed to his own head. "Special, as you said. I could hold out here for days, weeks even, nicking things from your ridiculously hearty breakfasts."

"And if I have a sudden urge to see how the other half sleep and avail myself of Gaius' spare room?"

Merlin frowned. "That would be no fun. No fun at all." He snagged Arthur's hand and drew it up to his lips, inhaling deeply. He pressed a firm kiss to the tender skin at Arthur's wrist. Then he yawned, blinked, and settled their joined hands on his chest. "Well done, sire," he said sleepily, "You've outwitted me, for now."

Seeing Merlin like this, naked and completely at ease, Arthur fretted that he would never be able hide their true relationship from everyone in the castle. But by the time they emerged from Arthur's chamber, Merlin limping along behind Arthur with an armload of dirty washing and muttering as Arthur recited all the chores that needed doing, he realized that everything would be just fine. They already knew how to do this; they'd been doing it for months now. Not the bed sport, obviously – and wasn't that a waste – but this unspoken mutual shift in their demeanor from private to public.

As the days passed, Arthur's confidence grew. Merlin seemed to sense when he might be an unwelcome distraction, during training or audiences with the king, and obligingly kept out of the way. Arthur was careful to give Merlin plenty of privacy in which to accomplish his chores. The sparring continued, both verbal and physical, but now that it was for its own merits and not a substitute for something Arthur thought he could not have, Arthur found himself listening more and not minding so much when Merlin occasionally landed a good blow.

They spent as much of the evenings together as they could, meeting in Arthur's chambers. There they would talk and eat, or just go about their separate tasks in front of a shared fire. When Merlin caught Arthur gazing at him in a certain way, or Arthur caught Merlin looking sidelong at the bed with a yearning expression, one or the other of them would check that the door was bolted; then there would be a mad rush to remove clothing – or a slow, teasing quest to expose skin – and Arthur would happily submit to Merlin's most excellent rule.

Arthur felt something dark and brittle in himself give way under this arrangement, and in its place was wrought something new. When he woke, he felt truly rested – no more clawing his way up from deep wells of anxiety or separating himself from tangled fantasies. He felt both sharper and more supple, as if he'd been imbued with the best of steel and leather. During council meetings he asked questions and spoke his mind; during royal audiences he looked his people in the eyes and listened, _really_ listened, and began to hear the unspoken grievances behind the official complaints.

He received many approving glances from the court, but when even Morgana began beaming at him openly, he wondered just how much of a disinterested, spoilt brat he had seemed before. He'd tried asking Merlin one evening, in a roundabout sort of way, but Merlin had only gawped at him. Then he'd stuffed an entire baked apple into his mouth, which hadn't _quite_ quelled his burgeoning laughter.

The most gratifying response had been that of the king. Arthur still found himself on the receiving end of stern, probing looks, but his father increasingly spoke to him as an equal. He solicited Arthur's opinion more frequently, in public as well as in private, and delegated more of the kingdom's financial responsibilities. He had even played down Arthur's failure to retrieve the Marchlyn Hoard to the council, turning their attentions instead to the catacombs beneath Camelot and the rumors of the amazing riches that could be found there, walled up in the tombs of forgotten ancestors.

When these rumors proved true, Arthur was overjoyed, not just because it meant an end to the ceaseless racket coming from the bowels of the castle at all hours, but also because it meant that Camelot would have a fine purse to offer at the upcoming joust. With Merlin's aid, Arthur was able to steer his men clear of the poisoned bolts and other traps some seriously misanthropic courtier had ordered set in place and recover the bulk of the treasure.

They had to forgo one massive sapphire set into the sarcophagus itself – one look at Merlin's frantically waving hands and panicked "very _very_ bad idea" face and Arthur announced sternly to all present that it would be disrespectful to remove it – but there were plenty of other jewels to add color to Camelot's coffers.

Uther looked rather wistfully at the sapphire when he came to view the spoils, but after some hard glaring and belabored pantomime from Merlin, Arthur once more explained his newly-found reluctance to vandalize coffins. He used lots of words he knew his father favored, like "duty" and "dignity."

"We have more than enough for a splendid tourney purse," he added. "With much left over for the castle coffers and Morgana's jewelry box."

The king smiled. "Still, to be able to show off such a jewel to our guests. You are right, of course, that we must leave dear… well, whatever his name is, to rest in dignity and splendor. But perhaps we might borrow the jewel and replace it after the tourney?"

Arthur glanced at Merlin, who was standing several paces behind the king. Merlin bared his teeth and made claws with his hands, then crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and pretended to choke himself.

"I… ah… that is, _Merlin_ and I have another idea, Father. There are rumors of a great beast seen… in the woods round Camelot." Arthur saw Merlin frown. He removed his hands from his throat and made slashing, stabbing motions instead. Then he slumped back against a nearby pillar, tongue once more protruding from his mouth.

"Yes, in the woods," Arthur continued, nodding slightly to show Merlin that he understood. "We are planning a hunt. For tomorrow. I will kill this… this legendary beast. Our guests shall then feast on its flesh and its head shall hang on your wall, a symbol of Camelot's power over its lands."

Merlin was now looking at Arthur like he'd lost his mind.

"Really?" Uther said, glancing back at Merlin (who quickly schooled his face into a blank mask) before looking at Arthur curiously. "What is the nature of this beast, Arthur? I've heard no rumors."

"Freshly arrived. Just this morning. Reports of," Arthur looked pointedly at Merlin, but Merlin only shrugged, so Arthur reached back to the tales from his boyhood and blurted out, "a white hart."

"A white hart?"

Arthur took a deep breath and tried to recall his nurse's words. "Indeed. A true hart of ten, with perfect points and a flawless hide. Easily twelve or thirteen hands high. They say his bellow echoes throughout the forest and the ground trembles beneath his hooves."

Merlin's mouth fell open and he stared at Arthur. Arthur, seeing his father pass a hand over his eyes, risked a wink. He thought he'd done rather well. He had no idea why Merlin looked so out of sorts.

Uther seemed lost in his thoughts, murmuring, "I have heard of such prizes, but not in recent times. It was seen nearby, you say?"

"Yes, Father."

"Very well. You'd best get on with your preparations then. Sapphires of such a size are rare, but a white hart is even more so. And the jewel isn’t going anywhere." Uther spared one last, longing glance at the sarcophagus, then nodded to Arthur. "I wish you success in your stalking, Arthur, and I look forward to the hart's points on my wall."

"Thank you, Father."

Arthur jerked his head towards the tomb entrance. As he and Merlin retreated, his father added, "Gorlois claimed he saw one once. On his wedding day. Always thought it was the wine talking, but I wonder."

As soon as they were well out of earshot of the king, Merlin crowded up behind Arthur and whispered viciously, "Are you _insane?_ Where are we going to find such a creature?"

"Relax, Merlin. We'll bring home plenty of other game and tell him the beast led us a merry chase before disappearing into an enchanted lake or something. Then I'll win the joust, Camelot will keep her purse, and my father will be far too jolly on mead to care."

"Oh, well as long as you are absolutely certain of winning."

"Why wouldn't I be? I am the reigning champion. And you shouldn't be giving me grief over the hart, as it is your fault that I had to invent him."

"How do you figure that?"

Arthur turned and mimicked Merlin's recent performance, beginning with the clawed hands and ending with the choking and stabbing. "Tell me that doesn’t mean, 'I know, Arthur, we'll find a notorious beast and kill it.'"

Merlin looked affronted. "Well, no. It _clearly_ means, 'If you let your father steal that jewel we'll all end up being attacked by hideous monsters and dying hideous deaths.'"

"What? Merlin, that's completely – " Arthur shook his head, leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Merlin's stubborn pout. "Sometimes I worry about what goes on in that head of yours."

"The feeling is mutual, sire," Merlin replied, but his expression softened.

They walked the rest of the way back up from the catacombs in silence. Once they were in the castle proper, Merlin excused himself to go run errands for Gaius.

Before he left, however, he frowned and said, "I suppose this means we actually do have to go hunting tomorrow?"

Arthur nodded happily. "Just the two of us, I think. Not usually done with large game, but we don’t need any witnesses to our awesome destiny, eh?"

"But, Arthur, that was – "

"Utterly brilliant, and I've been dying to try it again. Please tell me it works on animals bigger than hares?"

Merlin sighed and stomped off up the stairs.

They set out early the next morning. The day was fair, the air in the woods cool and fresh. Arthur slowed his horse to a walk and took up his crossbow, listening eagerly for the first hint of an approaching animal.

After an hour, Arthur was prepared to admit that, while the hunting wasn't exactly poor, it wasn't anything to boast about either. He began pestering Merlin with questions, but Merlin remained stubbornly silent. When they stopped to eat, Arthur added physical harassment, kicking at Merlin's boots and poking him with a stick.

 _"Merlin._ Where are all the hares, Merlin? All the juicy hares and the nice plump woodcocks – are you keeping them from me?"

Merlin glowered and the tip of his ears went very red. He tore into his bread with angry bites, but he ignored Arthur.

At last, after Arthur had dealt him a solid prod in the back, Merlin flung down his bread and looked at Arthur. His eyes went golden and the stick was yanked out of Arthur's hand. It flew across the clearing and broke against a tree trunk with a loud _thwack._

Merlin jumped up and faced Arthur.

"Our destiny has nothing to do with killing woodland creatures, you insensitive clod! You, Arthur, you're going to be the greatest king Camelot has ever seen." Merlin gestured at Arthur's head. "Then you will rise beyond even that, uniting the lords of many lands under your banner, but to do so, you're going to need me, because I seem to have a knack for saving your arrogant hide and I – don’t you _dare_ laugh – will apparently become the greatest sorcerer the world has ever known."

Arthur stared. Merlin was breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched at his sides as if he were expecting a challenge. Arthur stood and closed the distance between them, holding his hands up in surrender. Merlin relaxed slightly and Arthur put his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

"So, you weren't kidding about the awesome part then," Arthur said, and he felt Merlin tremble – with relief or amusement, he didn’t know.

Merlin swallowed audibly and pulled back a little. "Nope," he said.

"But you’re telling me that, despite our combined future greatness, we don’t actually rate a massive amount of fresh easy meat?" This earned Arthur a small smile.

"Yep."

"What was happening then, on the way back from the caves? I know I didn’t imagine it."

"No, you didn't. I think that was the Old Religion, working through all the living things in the forest. It sounds weird, I know, and even I am not entirely sure _how_ it works, but it is all connected somehow. When you found out about my magic and accepted it, accepted _me,_ as a sort of equal, well, everything was sort of… um… rejoicing."

"Rejoicing? Because we snogged in the woods?"

Merlin's small smile grew into a larger, more exasperated one.

"Well, the snogging was legendary, I'm sure, but no. I think it was more to do with our bond having been strengthened. And because there is now hope that things will be different in the future. Magic has been denied in these lands for too long, Arthur. But if you can accept me, trust me…"

Merlin bit his lip and searched Arthur's face. It took Arthur a moment to comprehend where Merlin was headed with this statement, but he got there eventually. He slipped a hand into the folds of Merlin's neckerchief, stroking the supple flesh found therein.

"And if I have dozens of very selfish reasons why I want to keep your by no means gorgeous neck attached to your shoulders?"

"Er," Merlin said, blushing. "Yes, I suppose that helps."

"I see. Point being that, if I accept you, I'm much less likely to begin my reign with mass witch burnings and executions."

"Mmm." Merlin nodded. He sucked in a great breath, as if girding himself for a verbal battle. "But it also means that ordinary, hardworking people might once again be able to seek the advice of the druids regarding their crops, or simple remedies for their loved ones, without fear of losing their heads. That those whose only crimes are being good-hearted and aiding strangers don’t find themselves accused of treason."

Arthur sighed, leaned his forehead against Merlin's. "That people like Gwen's father needn't die for nothing," he whispered. "I see, Merlin. I see."

Merlin exhaled shakily, all his tension draining away, and Arthur pulled him into a tight embrace. He closed his eyes and just listened to Merlin's breathing and the thud of his heartbeat, to the songbirds, to the gurgle of a nearby stream, to the rustle of branches and the snap of twigs…

Arthur opened his eyes.

"Merlin," he whispered frantically, relinquishing his embrace and grasping Merlin by the shoulders. "Merlin, are you quite certain our destiny has nothing to do with hunting?"

Merlin frowned. _"Yes,_ Arthur. I thought I – "

"Merlin, look behind you!"

The hart was white as milk, each of his ten perfect points shining in the rays of sunlight that penetrated the forest canopy. He stood no more than twelve feet away, watching them with dark, intelligent eyes.

Merlin gasped. "Oh my God. Oh, Arthur. No."

But Arthur was already edging towards the horses, who stood silent and oddly still with their heads bowed. He kept one arm around Merlin, pulling him along. The hart watched them, shifting a bit, but didn’t bolt. Arthur slowly eased alongside the horses and reached for his crossbow.

"Arthur, no!" Merlin whispered. "Remember the unicorn?"

Arthur paused and looked at Merlin's stricken face.

"Drought, Arthur. Drought and famine and me having to watch you keel over dead on what would have otherwise been a lovely afternoon at the seaside!"

Arthur lowered his hand. He looked from Merlin to the hart and back again. Then he shrugged. Perhaps Merlin had a point.

"All right. I'll content myself with having seen him. A good story to tell Father."

The hart snorted. He inclined his head in their direction, let out a mighty bellow and pranced a few feet farther away.

"It wouldn't hurt to give chase, would it?" Arthur said hopefully. "Just to lend more weight to the story. I promise I won’t shoot him." He looked at Merlin expectantly. If only his father could see him now, asking a sorcerer's permission to stalk royal game in his own damn forest!

"Oh all right," Merlin said. "The poor beast obviously has more looks than sense – like some others I know – given that it is hanging around people," he raised his voice and made shooing motions with his hands, "with pointy weapons and a penchant for decorating with antlers."

The hart only tossed its head and came a few paces nearer.

Arthur laughed. "See, I bet he likes a good chase. Probably hasn’t had one for ages."

As soon as they'd mounted their horses the hart was off, his pale haunches flashing in and out amongst the trees, his bright points dancing in the sun. At times he would pull away, and Arthur would race in pursuit, calling out instructions to Merlin. But he always reappeared, and as the chase wore on Arthur started to reconsider what Merlin had said. The unicorn had been an innocent and a creature of magic, taken unawares. This hart had _found_ Arthur; it seemed meant for him.

"I think he wants me to kill him, Merlin," he shouted.

"Or it's leading you to your doom," came the reply.

Arthur grinned, the thrill of the chase hot in his veins. "He is leading us somewhere. Look!"

The hart had slowed, and was picking its way through a thicket up ahead. Arthur and Merlin followed at a distance. It took them a little while to find a way through. They emerged into a small glade with an enormous gnarled oak at its center. The hart stood beneath the ancient tree. He watched them as they approached, eyes alert and flanks heaving.

Then he went down on his forelegs, bowing his great head, and Arthur looked at Merlin triumphantly.

Merlin sighed and gave Arthur a pained smile. "Well go on then. You're right. He's clearly determined."

Arthur slipped off his horse and unfastened his crossbow.

"Wait." Merlin dismounted and reached out a shaking hand towards the hart. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then the words of the Old Religion were dripping from his tongue like the last of the mead, sweet and sticky and forlorn.

Arthur may not have understood the words, but he understood that he – or rather, they – were being given a great gift. He waited until Merlin opened his eyes before loading a bolt. At Merlin's nod, he moved round so he was broadside of the hart, drew back the bolt and took careful aim.

The bolt zipped through the air and buried itself just behind the hart's shoulder. Arthur heard the hart's bubbling breath, saw him sink the rest of the way to the ground, and knew he'd hit true. He approached and knelt down, stroking the hart's sleek neck as his breath shuddered and finally ceased. At last, when all of the life was gone from the hart's eyes, he bowed his head and said his own words of thanks.

Arthur looked up to find Merlin watching him, his face lit with fierce pride.

 

* * * THE END * * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes on Shields:**
> 
> The shields that adorn the section breaks were designed and created by Mizufae based on the principles of heraldry and inspired by imagery in the text. The blazon, or formal description of each coat of arms, is given below, alongside informal descriptions and my comments.
> 
> The main colors, called "tinctures," used in heraldry are as follows: Azure (blue); Gules (red); Sable (black); Or (yellow/gold); Argent (white/silver); Purpure (purple); and Vert (green). The big thing in the middle of the shield is called a "charge."
> 
>  _Azure, A Sun in Splendour:_ The big bad sun in a big blue sky.
> 
>  _Argent, a Pile Wavy Gules:_ Merlin's neckerchief, but of course, on his creamy white skin.
> 
>  _Or, a Mullet of Eight Points Sable:_ KA-POW! I call this the big "blackout" star. Mizufae cleverly chose a charge with one point for each time Arthur has been unconscious thus far.
> 
>  _Sable, a Roundel Barry Wavy Argent and Azure:_ Merlin’s magic ball o' light in the darkness. I was tickled to learn from Mizufae that this charge, called a "fountain," is exempt from the guidelines of tincture and can be placed on either a dark or a light background. So it is kind of special and can go anywhere, just like Merlin's magic ball o' light!
> 
>  _Purpure, an Apple Or:_ The golden apple for Merlin's bath magic (and the tasty times to come); purple for my prose tendencies (and, as Mizufae points out, certain empurpled portions of the main characters' anatomy).
> 
>  _Vert, an Oak Tree Eradicated Argent:_ Literally, the oak tree in the glade. Waxing symbolic and sentimental, oak for the strength and endurance of Arthur and Merlin’s partnership and green for Arthur’s "awakening" and the new life of the kingdom to come.


End file.
